


I Don't Want To Let Go

by AltraViolet



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Body Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Horror, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Relinquishment Clinic, other canon characters mentioned - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 04:07:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29412399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AltraViolet/pseuds/AltraViolet
Summary: Drift has woken up to some weird stuff in his frame before. It comes with the territory, being a rentable frame at the Relinquishment Clinic. But this time, something is different...
Comments: 6
Kudos: 18





	I Don't Want To Let Go

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is informally dedicated to Blackberreh! It was inspired by a list of prompts she gave me but it doesn't really fulfill any of them... but this was the first thing I thought of when I read her prompts =)

**PRE-WAR CYBERTRON**

_i don't want to let go_

Drift has woken up to some weird stuff in his frame before. Nothing like what some of the mechs find- organs swapped to the opposite side, nervous ticks that never go away, and, thank Primus, no one has ever _died_ in his body. Hot Rod's eyes have never regained their shine. No, Drift has woken up to various things in his valve and weird punctures in his lines, evidence of someone enjoying recreationals that he had to give up in order to remain employed by the Relinquishment Clinic. But this is something different.

His frame feels like the color blue lathed its tongue up and down the inside of his plating. A creeping, magnetic sense that lingers inside him. It chills his lines. He shivers. He is still on the operating table, letting the room swim into view. The clinic administrator is there, doing last-minute scans. Drift waits for the feeling to fade. Maybe it's left over from the transferral process.

The transferral process he's been through dozens of times, that has never felt like this before.

_i don't want to let go_

It's not _words._ It's a feeling, a whisper of _anger_ and _reluctance_ that stick to him like low quality engex in his throat.

“All systems normal,” intones the administrator. “Brain module and spark chamber reinstallment complete.”

Drift sits up, patting his chest. “I feel... off.”

The administrator glances at him from over the top of his data pad. “Define.”

“All inside my frame... it feels weird. You know how, when things operate normally, you _don't_ feel them?” The administrator nods. “I can feel the inside of my plating.”

The administrator gives him a look. He conducts a few more tests: Drift is a high-earner, after all. The administrator lets Drift watch the raw data be crunched by the medical programs. Every result comes up green.

“All systems normal.”

“Who was my client?”

“You know I can't tell you that,” says the administrator. He squints conspiratorially. “I _will_ tell you that he was a most... _unusual_ client. We've never had one of his kind here. But he had plenty of money. Enough to rent you out for a whole night. He was very satisfied with his experience.”

“I aim to please,” mutters Drift. He hops off the medical bed. “When's my next appointment?”

“After the standard healing probation period of four weeks. I will contact you soon.”

Drift nods. He's not worried that the administrator will forget him, like he conveniently forgets some of the cheaper models. Drift's alt mode is flashy, fast, beautiful. He is always in demand. 

~

The weird feeling takes a few days to dissipate. Drift isn't worried, exactly. Sometimes clients leave a bit of themselves behind. Maybe some rogue spark energy is lingering in the lines or something. One weirdo left a bit of his innermost energon inside Drift's chest once. The administrator cleaned it out before reinstalling Drift, but had brought it up as a point of amusement. “Something of a superstition,” he had said wryly. “Perhaps an offering to atone for the paint marks he left on your aft.”

The weird feeling fades... and it comes back. Always when Drift isn't paying attention, caught up in the mundanity of everyday life. Those processor-gray areas, like when walking down the street, not thinking of anything in particular. Suddenly that blue color licks up the inside of his chest, swirling around his spark chamber. Drift finds that he has reached out for a lamp post. He's touching it and it's humming beneath his fingers. He snatches his hand back. He touches it again. Nothing. The blue feeling fades.

Another time, he is absentmindedly perusing a cooler of energon drinks. 

_i don't want to let go_

The cooler's lights flicker. Drift yelps, whacking his hand against the glass door and cracking it in half. The owner of the store almost kicks him out. Drift has to buy a shelf of drinks to pacify him.

Drift lies in bed. He's almost asleep. _i don't want to let go_. He gasps and springs up, wide-eyed, staring into the darkness. There's nothing there. It's all _inside,_ blue and grasping and touching and swirling. He beats his chest, willing the feeling to fade. It oscillates inside him, concentrating on his spark chamber. He knows, he _knows_ if it gets to his spark, he's done for. He grits his teeth.

...it recedes. For now.

When the administrator calls him to set up his next appointment, Drift is half out of his mind. He has not been sleeping well. He's not sure if the things he touches really move or not. He mentions the strange side effects. The administrator listens, in that calculating way he always does, and tells Drift to come in for more scans.

The scans are fast. They are flashy. They are, at best, bereft of answers, and at worse, inconclusive. The administrator shrugs, assigns Drift his next client, and tells him to come back in a few weeks. 

The only thing that gets Drift through it is an accidental discovery. For whatever reason, if he looks at himself in the mirror, the feeling calms and goes away. He installs mirrors in his ceiling. He installs mirrors in his palms. He looks at himself from every angle. He can sleep.

A few weeks later, Drift is reclining on the operating table, staring daggers at his palms until his arms are restrained. As his head falls back, he wonders if the bed will shudder beneath him. He wonders if the administrator will notice, will feel it, will hear it.

The administrator plugs the anesthetic line into his side.

_i don't want to let go!_

The blue feeling is _angry_. Before Drift can warn the administrator, he's already under-

-and he wakes to a furious glare. “Being clean is in your contract! What have you been using?!”

Drift scrambles up on the bed. Swaths of blue are pounding through him, washing up against his spark chamber. “Nothing! You tested me right beforehand! How could I possibly be using anything?”

“The client was _furious!_ He said your frame wanted him out! It fought him in every turn of the wheel. He had a terrible experience. He demanded his money back! We had to pay him double to keep his mouth shut!”

“It wasn't me! It wasn't _me!”_ Drift's hands shoot to his chest. It's swirling in there. Blue and sick and _jealous-_

“Your contract is terminated. Get out.” The administrator points to the door.

Drift leaves, burning the bridge with a few choice swears. With nowhere else to go, he signs up for the Decepticon cause and heads to war. He never trades his frame for cash again.

The feeling never comes back.

~

**4 MILLION YEARS LATER**

Ever since the _Lost Light_ left Cybertron, it's been one shitty thing after the other. Losing 40 mechs at launch, getting infected at Delphi, losing Rodimus, Overlord breaking out, and now the fucking DJD are here. Drift shoves Ratchet into the med bay safe room, but the stubborn old mech won't _stay_ in there, and now a double fusion cannon shadow looms long down the hall. Drift tries to keep his terror from escaping into his aura. 

“Oh, _Drift~”_ Tarn sings. But his voice doesn't come from his throat. Drift's lines run cold. Tarn's voice emanates from _inside_ him, licking his spark chamber with blue. “We've never met face-to-face. But do you remember me?”

Drift shudders. He forces himself into a defensive stance, pressing Ratchet back behind him. He raises his swords. The smell of nuke stains the air, but he knows that's not what's compelling Tarn forward. His eyes are too clear. Something else draws their frames together like magnets. Drift blocks a swipe of Tarn's claws-

_“Put those swords down.”_

Drift strains and pushes but his frame obeys Tarn, not him. “N- no-”

_“Kneel.”_

Drift struggles, rooting his feet to the ground, willing his knees not to bend, but his frame obeys Tarn, not him.

_“Watch my friend take care of your friend.”_

Drift tries to look away - he watches in agony as Ratchet is grabbed from behind by Kaon - but his frame obeys Tarn, not him.

_“Give up.”_

Drift tries to flare his spark, but his frame obeys Tarn, not him.

Tarn curls a hand under Drift's chin. His claw tips scratch Drift's throat. _“I remember being inside your skin. So fast. So beautiful. When I was nothing and no one, I got to be you for one night. It set me free. I didn't want to let go of you.”_

Drift gasps. His spark-! It's dwindling! He doesn't know how or why. Tarn washes away in cold blue. Drift's frame is folding into itself. He collapses, only his face held up in Tarn's crushing grip.

_“I don't want to let go...”_

Drift tries not to let go, but his frame obeys Tarn, not him.


End file.
